


Absence of Light

by janescott



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this dragon age kink meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=59703802#t59703802 The Inquisitor is possessed, how do the advisers and inner circle deal with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to etharei for the beta and for being patient with me. :) NB: any continuity errors are my own. I tried to get the timelines right, hopefully I succeeded :)
> 
> Title from the Canticle of Threnodies 8:21: "In the absence of light, shadows thrive."

It cannot count the years. It does not want to count the years. The young mage - who had come into her powers at a respectable age; not too young, nor too old, had power that hummed through the Fade and made it … _want_.

However, it did not want to destroy her. Oh, no. That would not do, not at all. It wanted … more. Something else, something … it entered through her skin, through her breath. She breathed it in and became, at once, more. 

And less.

It sleeps. Or perhaps - slumbers is a better word. It watches and waits; watches as the Second Blight crawls across the land; as the elves turn in, turn away from the human cities. It curls around her memories and her powers and it … waits.

It watches, again detached, as the humans batter against the darkspawn again, and again, and again. It cares not, for their fate, nor for the fate of the darkspawn; ill-made creatures that they are. Its only impetus now is survival. 

So he moves them around. Stories arise, of a sole elven maiden seen wandering here and there through Orlais. No one truly believes them; assuming that she is an escaped slave from the Imperium perhaps - the stories are there, but they are largely dismissed.

This suits its purpose.

For now.

It watches, again, as the Exalted Plains fall to the humans; as Halamshiral is lost. It feels her pain and grief as elven lives fall and fall again on human swords, and on human righteousness at their own superiority, and opens its maw wide to feed on it, glutting on her pain and grief at this, and tasting it, savouring it like a Magister savouring the finest wine.

As the Dales fall, it feeds on its host’s sadness and regret. On the host’s rage at her inability to do anything but beat against her own skull and skin. There would be nothing she could do, it knows, except die with the last of them. 

It will not let her.

It watches, and waits, as the Dalish pick up the pieces of who they were, and struggle with what they are now.

It considers keeping the child at the age she was when it found her - about 11 or 12, though it does not really care, but decides, instead to let her age a few years at least - as she ages, her powers grow.

However, it would not do, to let her become too powerful. It is greedy and it wants, but it also wants to be the one who is in charge.

They wander through the years; through the centuries. It watches the Blights come and go with contempt. Darkspawn. 

It regards the Imperium, but does not travel there. It considers Orlais, but does not return there. Let them hiss and spit at each other across their borders. It has other plans.

It sleeps, sometimes letting uncounted years pass, as it keeps her body alive. Her spirit and her mind - it cares not. They are hiding, somewhere inside, nothing but faint echoes of what they once were and it has no interest in them.

Some stride across history, shaking it awake. It goes to see, always, what is happening, whether there is anything in these monumental times for it to exploit.

There is not - until the Conclave at Haven shakes it awake once more and it finds its host suddenly with a hand that glows and an ability to close holes in the sky …

Ah now, it thinks. _Now_ there is a chance to change the world. To shape it, perhaps, finally, in its own image.

She is called, at first, a killer. The murderer of the Divine. It knows the truth, however. Knows what happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Knows, even, the name of the blighted darkspawn conspiring to enter the Fade physically.

It considers letting Corypheus have what he wants. But somehow, the elven girl - curled up in a corner of her own mind for centuries - reaches out, and touches the Orb. And. Well.

Corypheus’s rage is a thing of rare and great beauty and if it weren’t for the resulting massive explosion, it would have enjoyed watching it for longer.

But. It - she - is taken and thrown into a cell. Chained and locked up. The mark on her hand is … interesting. It can taste the Fade behind it; the elven magic used to create it. It cannot see what might be coming next, and so it settles, and waits.

She - after apparently slumbering for centuries - is awake, confused and terrified. So it touches her mind carefully, putting her back to slumber once again.

It would not do, to have her bungle whatever might be next.

What is next is … interesting. From the murderer of the Divine, suddenly it is the Herald of Andraste - a deep irony that it finds endlessly amusing.

There are people, suddenly, asking for its opinions; it can influence the direction of … well, of all of Thedas, it seems.

It has been too long, since it fed on the simple hubris of humans.

It decides to go along for now; to make … moral choices. The kinds of choices his own host might have made, if she had not had her own unique passenger.

It is not hard, and it watches and waits.

Fen’Harel though. He might prove troublesome.

_Solas_ he is known to the people around him; to the Seeker, Cassandra, and to the dwarf Varric, and the others that seem to arrive at Haven; day after day.

It keeps quiet, because how would a simple elf maid from an unknown alienage know that? But it knows. It can taste Fen’Harel’s deceit on the air; can feel it leach into the Fade that his unwilling host carries around with her. 

It keeps quiet, and stores the information away; waiting.

The Inquisition grows. And it grows with it; fatter and fatter all the time, feeding on the pride and envy and anger of the good people of Haven.

It waits.

Skyhold

Solas looks around, at the room he has claimed inside his very own old fortress.

He sighs as the weight of centuries and guilt settles on his shoulders. Nothing to be done now but go forward. 

He contemplates the wall in front of him, and the range of paints on the small side-table pushed against the wall. The Inquisition has been slowly settling in to Skyhold after the destruction of Haven and the Inquisitor’s encounter with Corypheus …

Solas frowns at that, as he absently mixes two colours together. Something about that encounter has him unsettled, even after all this time.

The Inquisitor is young; barely 17, and her magic is … wild. Unformed. And yet. Yet, she defeated a powerful darkspawn on her own, and survived an impossible trek through snow-choked mountains.

He sighs as he begins carefully applying paint to the wall in front of him. Something … something is wrong; is off. He knows it is.

He also believes he knows _what_ it is but the idea of it … it’s nothing short of monstrous.

Solas sighs and carefully cleans off the paintbrush before placing it on the table. He cannot ignore this for any longer. 

If he is right, the implications for the Inquisition - and for the Inquisitor herself are … well. As much as he would rather not think about it, he knows he must face it down.

Squaring his shoulders, he makes for the stairs leading up to the library.

Dorian is there, of course, regaling Fiona with some terrible and no doubt exaggerated tale. Solas clears his throat and waits until Dorian turns around, shocked.

“Solas? What brings you up here? Were we being too loud while you were … thinking about the Fade, or whatever it is you actually do down there?”

Solas rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore Dorian’s words for now.

“I … need to speak with you. With both of you. And - we had best gather Madame De Fer as well.”

Dorian’s smile slips and he frowns. “This sounds serious. I think Vivienne is in her chamber, we can talk there uninterrupted.”

Fiona says nothing, merely regarding Solas for a long moment with her wide eyes before turning to follow Dorian through the door into Vivienne’s chambers.

“Are you certain about this?” Fiona’s Orlesian accent has a pleasant lilt normally, that Solas enjoys listening to. But her voice now is sharp, and Dorian and Vivienne are staring at him as though he has suddenly grown an extra head.

“Not … entirely certain.”

“But certain enough to come to us,” Dorian says. It’s easy for Solas to forget how sharp Dorian can be - how clever he actually is under all of his witticisms and defensive posturings.

“If you are right, and the Inquisitor is an abomination, we must deal with it. As soon as possible, my dear. Surely you see that?”

Solas sits back on Vivienne’s sofa and regards her for a long moment. She is sure of herself; of her place in the world. Even after the mage rebellion, Madame de Fer does not suffer from any loss of confidence or uncertainty.

“I do not believe it is that simple. We have enough mages here, and I’m sure Lady Montilyet could procure the lyrium necessary for the ritual. We also have the records of the ritual being performed by the Hero of Ferelden on the son of the previous Arl. But.” 

Solas pauses and spreads his hands, suddenly exhausted. He has lived too long, and sometimes the years and the mistakes he has made crowd in on him.

“But,” Dorian picks up the thread of conversation. “We have no way of knowing how the Mark would react to the ritual.”

Solas nods. “Exactly. The Mark itself is ... an unknown quantity. As is whoever is being possessed.” (Except it’s not; it’s not, Solas thinks to himself. He knows exactly what the Mark is. But he still cannot say how it would react to the ritual.)

 

“Assuming you are right, my dear Solas.”

Solas nods, acknowledging Vivienne’s caution. “Indeed. But think about it. Add it up in your head. A 17-year-old untrained elven apostate mage - she is not Dalish, she lacks even that level of training - facing down a Magister Darkspawn on her own? And surviving? And sometimes - “

Solas pauses, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes like a tired child.

“Sometimes there’s a _look_ … yes, I’ve seen it. I didn’t think anything of it, but it’s … cold. Alien. Maker,” Dorian adds softly, as the implications hit him full force.

“So what are you suggesting? That we let this …. thing … be? Let some poor, frightened child go on being possessed?”

“And what if we acted now? What if - what if she died during the ritual? What if the Mark reacted badly somehow? What if we lost the girl, the Inquisitor _and_ the Mark? What then do we do about Corypheus?”

Solas sits back, breathing heavily. “I .. apologise, Madame De Fer. This has been weighing on me for weeks now. I wasn’t sure whether I should even say anything. But - “ he subsides again, shaking his head.

“What we need,” Fiona’s voice cuts through the tension, “is some kind of a plan, yes? We need the Inquisitor whole, as she is, for now. I do not like it either, but I also do not think any of us are suggesting leaving her like this permanently. Are we?”

“Maker, I hope not,” Dorian exclaims. “But Fiona’s right - we need a plan of attack. What do we know for sure?”

Vivienne regards Solas for a long moment, then settles back on her own couch.

“All right,” she says. “I will give you that much. Corypheus _is_ a bigger problem than one little abomination. But I want your assurance, Solas, that as soon as we can, we do something about it.”

Solas inclines his head slightly, feeling inexplicably relieved.

“Thank you, Madame De Fer. Here’s what I think we should do.”

It knows something has changed. Something … important. Fundamental. It contemplates reaching out; but truth be told it can guess what it is.

Fen’Harel - the Dread Wolf - is clever, if nothing else.

But what is to be done? If it moves now, what will happen? Will the mages move against it? Against the Inquisitor?

No, it decides after mulling the problem over. The Inquisition is too important to all of them to consider such a risky venture.

For now, it is … safe. And after.

It smirks as it studies the reports on the Inquisitor’s desk, the balcony doors wide open. It is indifferent to human temperatures and does not notice the cold air of the surrounding mountains.

After. After Corypheus. It is then that it will be in the most danger, and then will be the best time to move.

The mages, of course, will have come to the same conclusion. When the time comes, it will need to act swiftly.

For now, though ...

One thing at a time. Deal with this Corypheus once and for all. Then with these upstart mages, who think they have the means to defeat it and save its host.

And then, with all of the power and resources of the Inquisition at its disposal … it resists the urge to laugh, but just barely.

On to more important things. The reach of the Inquisition must be long and its shadow seen all over Thedas. To that end, the Inquisitor begins planning a trip to Halamshiral and the Winter Palace.

It is time to move the pieces around on its chessboard. Time to pluck the tempting swell of Orlais from the jaws of the Imperium; waiting patiently for the civil war to reach such a crisis that it can just sweep through and take over.

Time to make the Empress beholden to the Inquisitor … 

When all is said and done, and it is feasting on the ashes of these damned mages - especially those of Fen’Harel, it will enjoy taking the world apart piece by piece by piece. Let the Veil be ripped asunder. Let the world burn.

But. 

Not yet. It is not yet time for that dark future. 

 

“Are you certain of this?” Cassandra’s voice rings out through Vivienne’s somewhat crowded space, into the ringing silence that follows Solas’s explanations.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his head. “As certain as I can be, Seeker, yes.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache and wonders again if letting the Inquisitor’s inner circle know what the mages had speculated was a good idea. 

On the other hand if they _didn’t_ tell them and something happened … well, relations between mages and - everyone in Thedas, Solas thinks wearily - are still shaky.

A show of trust; a leap of faith is necessary.

“You believe the Inquisitor to be an abomination, and yet you advocate doing nothing?”

“Only until Corypheus has been defeated,” Dorian says, picking up Solas’s explanation. “We could do the ritual now - we have the mages, and the lyrium - but we have no way of predicting the effect it would have on the Mark - or on the poor soul who is being possessed.”

Cassandra frowns and begins pacing the floor.

“I do not like it,” she says, turning to Solas.

“Neither do I, my dear, but there is a certain .. logic to waiting. Corypheus, after all, is bigger than all of us. Bigger even, than the Inquisition.”

“And you, Madame De Fer, you support this plan?”

Vivienne sighs and settles back into her chair. “If it were up to me, Cassandra, we would do the ritual right now and damn the consequences. But we cannot afford to be rash. Not with a … magister darkspawn just waiting for us to show weakness.”

“This is shit. I hate it. I can’t - “ Sera spreads her hands out and looks at Cassandra, her eyes wide with fear. “You said you’d put yourself in front of magic. Will you - “

“Of course,” Cassandra says, sighing and gripping the pommel of her sword. She shares a look with Commander Cullen, who lets out a long breath.

“All right,” he says. “I don’t like this, at all. But our priority has to be Corypheus. For now, we stick to Solas’s plan. Agreed?”

Reluctant nods and murmurs around the room, and Solas sits back, feeling lighter somehow.

“It’s wrong.” 

Solas is back in his own rooms, carefully going through an ancient tome detailing visits to the Fade, and different kinds of possession, trying to find anything that might be helpful.

He jumps when he hears Cole’s voice, despite himself.

“Heal the hurt. Help the small. She’s small and she’s scared and it’s _wrong_.”

Solas sets his book aside and regards Cole who has come into his rooms without Solas hearing him, and has settled cross-legged on Solas’ table, careless of the papers and books on it.

“No one likes it, Cole, and I do understand how you feel. But do you see why we made the choice that we did?”

Cole frowns, his face shadowed by his ridiculously large hat. He picks at a hole on the sleeve of his threadbare jumper, and sighs. 

“It feels _wrong_.”

“Cole please - it is very important that you do nothing right now. If we act now, we could lose the poor soul who’s being possessed. We could lose the Mark, the world would fall to Corypheus. I understand how you feel - I have struggled with this dilemma for longer than you know. Please - I need you to trust me.”

Cole tilts his head back so he can meet Solas’s eyes, his direct, blue gaze un-nerving.

“Does this - heal the hurt? Help the small, stop the fear? She’s so very scared.”

“I know she is, Cole, and it is an awful choice, I agree. But - “

“But the wound in the sky, demons and terrors and people everywhere hurting and dying - all right. It doesn’t feel right, it feels wrong _here_ -” Cole lays a hand against his stomach, pressing in, “- But trust. Yes. And Corypheus…”

Cole tilts his head back as though he can see the menace himself through the solid stone of Skhyold itself.

“If Corypheus cannot be defeated because we acted too soon and too rashly, all of Thedas would fall. I am sorry, Cole. I promise you - that if - that _when_ Corypheus falls, we will do all we can to - help the small, as you put it.”

Cole says nothing else, dropping his head to pick at a loose thread again. Solas picks up his book to continue his research. He loses himself in the speculation the volume offers, though much of it is incorrect.

When he looks up again, Cole is gone.

 

The trip from Skyhold to Halamshiral is long and wearying. 

Its host is aware enough to know where they are going, and her grief and fear at returning to Halamshiral is almost distracting at times. It tips her back into unconsciousness as often as it can.

It is aware of the attention of the mages; Fen’Harel seems to be glued to its side, and it cannot turn its head without seeing Dorian or Vivienne on its heels.

If there were not so much at stake, it would simply burn them all to ash and damn the consequences.

But. It grits its teeth and endures. 

The Winter Palace is … surprising. Overdone and pointless, like most of Orlais, it thinks to itself, even as it acts the part of a wide-eyed girl attending a grand ball for the first time.

Oh, if only they knew how hard it was playing their precious Game right now.

But Corypheus’s little pet is dealt with. The Empress rules alone and certain, and Orlais is as steady as it has ever been, as far as it can tell. Civil war averted, everyone goes home happy.

How very _dull_.

The end will not be long now, it thinks, as it listens to the human woman - Morrigan - prattle on about ancient elven artifacts. It longs to put her in her place and tell her what exactly she is wrong about, but it abides by the silent agreement that seems to have been made by itself and the Inquisition’s inner circle.

It will not play its hand.

Not yet.

Though losing the Well of Sorrows to Morrigan is a wrench, it will admit. But it cannot risk Mythal’s … ire. So it steps back and instead feeds on its host’s sorrow - yet again - as she is allowed glimpses of what her people once were, and will never be again.

It’s some compensation for passing up the Well.

It finds it is looking forward to battling Fen’Harel almost as much as it is to tearing down Corypheus.

And then .. and then it will remake Thedas in its own image. Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches … all will fall before the Inquisition’s banner. It will gorge on the power and the despair that will bring.

Alone, it bares its teeth at the thought.

Alone, his host whimpers softly to herself, caught in a corner of her own mind that she cannot escape.

 

They had been counting on Solas. Dorian turns again, and again, looking around the ruins of the temple but - he’s gone.

They had been _counting_ on Solas!

“What do we do?” Vivienne shouts as she makes her way across the rubble. Dorian shakes his head, unable to think past the roaring anger inside his head.

“Back to Skyhold,” he says as Vivienne takes his arm after stumbling over a jagged rock. “We can decide what to do there. Perhaps Morrigan can help us, she’s done this ritual before, when she travelled with the Hero of Ferelden - “ he’s babbling, he’s aware, but he can’t stop himself and Vivienne simply grips his arm and nods.

“Back to Skyhold,” she echoes. “ _Damn_ Solas. Damn him to the Void and back!”

They save their breath then, battling their way back to the fortress.

Solas was meant to perform the ritual, had agreed to perform it as he knew the Fade most intimately out of all of them.

Soldiers come up to them, part of Cullen’s forces but Dorian waves them away. “We’re all right,” he says. “Just. Exhausted.”

One of them nods, and hands a water skin to Dorian who takes it gratefully, handing it to Vivienne before taking a drink himself. It’s warm and slightly brackish but it’s the best thing Dorian’s ever drunk.

“Maker, I needed that,” he says. Vivienne nods, and they begin the journey back to Skyhold.

There is a party already under way, by the time they all make their way back to the fortress.

Dorian grits his teeth and grabs the nearest glass, draining the contents.

“We need to do this soon,” he says to Vivienne, softly, watching the Inquisitor as she chats to the Iron Bull. 

Vivienne nods, before letting herself be drawn away by some Orlesian nobleman.

“Tomorrow, my darling. First thing. We’ll all meet in the Inquisitor’s quarters.”

Dorian nods, and lets himself be drawn into the festivities.

It’s dark when Vivienne wakes him from a too-short sleep, but Dorian is alert in an instant. “Come, my dear. The sooner, the better or Maker knows what havoc that demon will cause now that Corypheus is dead.”

The advisers and the inner circle gather at the door leading up to the Inquisitor’s room. Fiona is also there, at the head of a group of mages. She is looking far too composed for what they are about to attempt.

Cullen looks at Dorian and Vivienne and nods slightly. “So - how are we going to do this? I should - I should stay down here, I can feel the bloody lyrium from here …”

Cassandra places a hand on his arm. “You will stay here, Cullen. Guard the door and let no-one pass.”

“I’ll go about - servants and such - put it out that she’s not well. Hungover or summat like that. Help keep the nobs away, maybe.” 

Cassandra nods. “Thank you Sera. Bull and I will come up to the Inquisitor’s room with the mages. It will be our job to put anyone down who … well. We know what our job is.”

Bull nods, a grim expression on his face. Dorian runs a hand over his own face, exhausted suddenly. 

“I’ll come too, she’s small and scared and all alone and why can no one hear me? She’s shouting.” 

Cassandra regards Cole for a long moment before she nods. “All right, Cole. But stay out of the way of the mages, all right?”

Cole nods, his impossible hat tilting with the movement. If the moment were not so serious and weighted, it would make Dorian smile.

“I have archers on the balcony already,” Leliana says. “Just in case.”

Bull grunts and folds his arms. “Back-ups to the back-ups. Good thinking, Red. Fucking demons. Fucking … let’s just get this done.”

Dorian and Vivienne look at each other. “Well, my dear, are you ready?”

Dorian laughs, a nervous outburst that he stifles immediately as Blackwall places a hand on his shoulder. “No, but - we will never be ready for this. If - if I come back as an abomination - “

“My dear. That will not happen. And if it does, our lovely Seeker here will not hesitate to put her sword through your heart.”

“That’s … comforting. All right. And if I see Solas in the Fade, I’m going to Fade-punch him right in the balls. This was supposed to fall to him, he’s the Fade expert - “ Dorian takes a deep breath and stops himself from tipping over into a pointless rant.

“Okay. The gang’s all here. We beat one asshole demon, darkspawn - whatever. We can do this.” Varric shoulders Bianca, pats Cullen on the arm, and shoulders his way through the door leading up to the Inquisitor’s room.

“Good luck,” Josephine says quietly as they file through the door. “I shall - see what I can do myself, to distract ah, curious nobles, and to - keep things running. Andraste guide your path.”

Cullen closes the door behind the last of them, Bull taking up the rear. Cullen plants his feet, folds his arms and sets about glowering at anyone who ventures too close.

Josephine watches for a moment, then swings into action herself, heading off a Comte she knows to be particularly nosy and a notorious gossip, although she can only imagine what he is doing up and about at this hour. “Ah, my dear, it was a splendid evening, was it not? I’m afraid the Inquisitor is - indisposed. Yes - she tried those cakes, what were they? The exquisite misery? And in combination with some rather excellent Antivan brandy …. Well. You can _imagine_ how she feels today …”

Cullen smiles to himself as Josephine deftly diverts the Comte. He sighs, and begins reciting the Chant of Light to himself as he waits, and watches.

It’s a silent entourage that travels up to the Inquisitor’s room. Dorian feels as though his heart is going to pound right through his skull. His mouth is dry and his hands are damp, slipping on his staff. He takes an unsteady breath and feels a large hand on his back. “Easy, Dorian. Breathe with me for a moment, all right? C’mon …”

Dorian can hear Bull’s inhales and exhales and he does his best to match them, finding it distracting enough to calm himself down so that he can focus.

“Thank you, Bull.”

When the last of them file into the Inquisitor’s room, Fiona and the other rebel mages - or, well, former rebel mages, Dorian supposes - are ranged on one side of the bed. Lyrium glows in several bowls around the room, casting an eerie blue light in the pre-dawn gloom. As for the Inquisitor herself - Dorian’s heart aches for just a moment.

She’s sleeping - whether naturally or put under by Vivienne or one of the other mages he’s not certain - and she looks so bloody _young_. He feels a surge of anger, a cleansing and clearing force that focuses his mind. He can do this. He _will_ do this - for the good of the Inquisition and Thedas, yes, but most especially, he thinks for a young girl whose whole life was stolen simply because a demon got greedy.

He breathes in, and out, and closes his eyes for a moment. A memory of Felix flickers across his awareness - a shared smile and a late night in Alexius’s library. It’s calming somehow and Dorian feels … steadier. He opens his eyes and looks to Vivienne, standing beside him.

“Are you ready, my dear? She is deeply asleep and will not wake any time soon. I will keep watch over her sleep and I believe Fiona will keep watch over yours. Lie down, when you’re ready. It is time. Maker light your way.”

Dorian nods, and arranges himself carefully on the bed, lying on his back. The Inquisitor is still in her unnatural sleep beside him, her smooth, sleep-lax features making her look far younger than her supposed 17 years. Dorian is going to tear the demon who did this to her limb from limb.

He looks up at Vivienne and then at Fiona and says “I’m ready. Begin the ritual.”

The Fade looks … wrong, somehow. Dorian glances around and yes, there’s the Black City in the distance, so he’s definitely _in_ the Fade but it looks … fractured. Wrong, somehow. There’s an overwhelming sadness emanating from each crack and he’s not sure how he’s going to navigate.

“Very carefully, I should think,” a familiar voice comes from behind him and Dorian whirls around, raising his staff at the same time.

Solas raises his hands and says, “Easy, Dorian. Peace?”

“Peace? _Peace_??? I’m here because of you! You were supposed to do this! Why - “

Solas sighs, and looks inexpressibly tired and ancient somehow. Just for a moment before his visage flickers back to the one Dorian is familiar with.

“I had my reasons for leaving when I did. Do not press me on them now. Whatever you may think of me, I am here to help you.”

Dorian laughs at that, a short, bitter bark that he stifles immediately.

“I do not expect you to trust me - “

“Well, good because I certainly don’t. However … if you can help me through this and out the other side alive and intact ... “

Solas nods and moves forward, studying the fractured path ahead of them.

“She is … hiding, I believe. From the demon as much as from us. It will take some time to find her.”

Dorian slings his staff over his back, settling it back into its harness. 

“Then I suppose we had better get started.”

Dorian lets Solas take the lead, acknowledging his familiarity with the Fade. Maker knows, Dorian thinks as they carefully pick their way around one of the fractures, he’s talked about it often enough to anyone who would stop to listen.

A wailing cry erupts, suddenly, filling the distorted air around them. Dorian drops to his knees, pressing his hands against his ears. It’s the same sadness that’s emanating from the fractures, somehow.

“Is that - “ he has to shout to make himself heard but Solas merely nods, his expression grave. “Yes. I believe that is her - the original young woman that the demon possessed.”

The wailing stops and Dorian is able to stagger to his feet, his ears ringing. “She sounds - I’ve never heard anything like that.”

“No. And there is no telling how long she has been crying out. Though I believe that explains the fractures we are seeing, and the feelings emanating from them. _It_ stole her life from her - her normal span, whatever it might have been; greedy to feed on her magic - “ Solas shakes his head and Dorian can see he’s trying to calm himself but it’s too late. 

Dorian has time to shout a warning and hurl Winter’s Grasp as the rage demon rises up behind Solas. Then the battle is engaged.

Solas finally dispenses with the demon with a well-placed and hasty frost rune, and it is time to move on. Dorian cannot tell how much time has passed; nor how long they have been walking. He feels no fatigue; no hunger; just the sense that they need to keep moving. One foot, then another, then - the Despair demon almost catches him out, but Solas is quicker this time, casting a fire spell to distract it before they fall together, fighting as easily as they have always done.

It’s … something, Dorian acknowledges rather grudgingly. That they still have this seamless way of battling together, born out of long months working and fighting for the Inquisition. It’s crucial, and in this place, any advantage is needed.

They don’t waste time with words, focusing all of their energies on casting spells and casting down the demons that rise, and rise - and - Dorian falls to his knees, his ears ringing again with the terrible, forlorn sound of that _scream_.

Solas casts a barrier, then sends a giant fireball at a despair demon, before falling to his knees beside Dorian. The screaming doesn’t ease off this time.

“I believe we are close,” Solas shouts. Dorian can barely hear him, but he nods. The screaming does seem to be closer, and they seem to be - almost - out of demons to slay.

Dorian takes a deep breath, and uses his staff to pull himself to his feet. Solas stands beside him and he seems to be searching for something, his eyes moving restlessly over the strange, flat landscape of the Fade.

“There,” he says, pointing at something in the distance.

“I believe that is her.”

Dorian squints into the distance and can see something that he would have passed by as nothing more than a pile of rubble - a small, curled up figure in white.

“Let us go.”

Dorian says nothing, but falls into step beside Solas. The screaming is constant now, rattling through his very bones as they make their way across the fractured landscape of the Fade.

He doesn’t hear the laughing at first, the screaming having driven every single thought straight out of his head. Indeed, he doesn’t know anything is wrong - or more wrong - until Solas stops him with a hand on his arm.

Dorian looks up. And up. And up. “Of course,” he says to himself. “Of course it’s a Pride demon.”

“A Pride demon, no less, that looks as though it’s been feeding on her for centuries. Are you ready?”

“No.”

And with that, the battle is engaged.

The fight is long, and in the odd timelessness of the Fade, it feels endless. Dorian does not tire, as he would in the real world, and there is some kind of Fade-touched lyrium that he can tap into when his mana begins to falter.

Solas is beside him, his visage grim, and Dorian would swear he can see Solas’s face flicker between that of a wolf and back again. It’s the Fade, he thinks playing tricks - the demon’s sudden, hollow and booming laughter rings out, nearly enough to send Dorian to his knees again.

Nearly, he realises, but not quite - which means that the demon is beginning to weaken. Dorian slams his staff down again, and again, barely aware of Solas beside him, their moves a mirror of the other as they batter and batter and batter it.

It lashes out with its lightning charged whip and Dorian barely has time to cast a barrier before it comes whistling past.

“MORTAL FOOLS. YOU CANNOT DEFEAT ME. NONE CAN DEFEAT ME. YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY _PRIZE_ FROM ME.” Dorian watches in horror as the demon seems to grow. “Maker, we’re never going to - “ he turns to Solas, for a plan, a strategy, _anything_ only - Solas is gone. Or at least - Dorian blinks and shakes his head but no, the giant wolf is still where Solas was just a moment ago.

“DREAD WOLF, I DO NOT FEAR YOU. TRY AND FACE ME. I WILL FEED ON YOU, AND THEN ON THESE MORTALS AND THEN ON ALL OF THEDAS.”

The wolf turns to Dorian. “Dorian, I am - I’m sorry. I have no time to explain. You - cannot do any more here. Get to the girl. You will both need to wake up. I wish - “

The demon roars then again, shaking the fractured stones of the Fade’s paths nearly apart, and Dorian has to clutch his staff in order not to fall. The wolf - who is still somehow Solas - is growing but he reaches out and touches Dorian on the forehead. “I cannot let you remember me like this. Know that - I am sorry. I can wrench the demon from the girl like this, though I had hoped it would not get so far. Get the girl. Get out of here. Wake up. Go!”

Dorian blinks, dazed, but pulls himself to his full height, blinking in confusion. Solas is gone … again, Dorian thinks. There’s a giant wolf battling the demon, and it must be some kind of … Fade spirit, Dorian thinks vaguely as he makes his way across the shattered Fade to the small, broken figure behind the fighting giants.

An unholy screech rents the air suddenly, and Dorian wonders if his hearing will ever recover as it wails on and on - a bitter combination of pain, greed and loss that will not abate.

The girl. He must reach the girl. He must -

He jolts awake suddenly and for a moment doesn’t know where he is. He blinks as Vivienne’s face swims into focus. “Dorian? My dear - are you all right? Did - “

Dorian turns and looks at the young girl beside him, her eyes blinking slowly. “I’m not … sure. There was - “ he shakes his head as something - the impression of something large and growling slips away from him.

The girl - the Inquisitor, sits up and if possible her large eyes grow wider as she sees all the people surrounding the bed.

“It’s all right,” Cole says, from the foot of the bed. “I know you’re - scared, small, gone is it gone, where am I - but. It’s. It’s all right.”

She fixes her wide-eyed gaze on him and frowns. “I … I know you. I think? I know … all of you? I don’t - I’ve been dreaming?”

Cole scoots forward slowly, and reaches out a hand. She takes it and grips it tight as Dorian and the rest watch her carefully. “Yes. You’ve been dreaming. But - you - you’re all right now. Everything will be all right now.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand.


End file.
